Safe and Sound
by ijustwanttobeabritishman
Summary: I remember you said "Don't leave me here alone", but all that's dead and gone and passed tonight. Just close your eyes; the sun is going down. You'll be all right; no one can hurt you now. Come morning light, you and I'll be safe and sound...


**Based on a post on tumblr**

**Title taken from the song "Safe and Sound" by Taylor Swift from The Hunger Games. It sounds really cheezy, but you should read this fic with the music if you can.**

**Don't own the song or the show.**

_Just close your eyes_

_The sun is going down_

"Take my hand."

John grasped Sherlock's hand in his, trying desperately to keep up with the taller man racing through the streets. His heart thudded twice as hard as it had ever raced, faster even than when he'd been over in Afghanistan. _"Sherlock,"_ he breathed, trying to run faster. All that mattered was the connection they had now; if Sherlock let go, John would be left in the dust, left to the others.

Sherlock sprinted through the courtyard, John in tow. He looked around frantically for a place to go, and, finding none, stopped. John stood, panting, for a few seconds until Sherlock suddenly veered to the right. John, sparing one glance behind them, rushed after him, hand still gripping the other man's tightly. A few fingers slipped, and John adjusted his grip slightly, trying to reassure himself that, despite now being chased by policemen and quite possibly now considered a criminal, he was with Sherlock, and somehow that made things okay.

_You'll be all right_

_No one can hurt you now_

John sat in the chair, head supported faintly by one hand, staring blankly at the empty leather chair. The light was reflecting on it, flowing up and down with every crease that had been left by the last person who'd sat there. The clock ticked sometime in the background, but John didn't hear it. He hadn't heard the past 36,523 ticks it had made.

He could just imagine Sherlock sitting there, plucking at his violin, occasionally looking up at John to roll his eyes or smile that knowing smile, like he knew _exactly _what John had been thinking, which of course he always did. He could practically _see _the man sitting the chair.

John thought painfully of the times between cases in the small portions of time in which Sherlock wasn't shooting the walls in a fit of boredom, when Sherlock would sit in that leather chair, usually with his legs hanging off the side of it or tucked up to his chin. John would sit in the chair and watch him.

36,523 ticks would pass.

Neither of them would notice.

_Come morning light_

_You and I'll be safe_

_And_

_Sound_

John walked away from the headstone, the way he always walked; bobbing from side to side with his arms hanging awkwardly to the side as if they didn't really know where to be. His head was held aloft, confident. He'd said what he needed to say, and while it certainly wasn't going to be his last visit to Sherlock's grave, it was enough for what he needed to say now.

_Even when the music's gone_

Sherlock watches John walk away, fighting to keep from tearing across the dirt ground of the cemetery to his friend and just _envelop _him and whisper _"It's okay, John. I'm here, and I'm not going away. It'll all be okay. Everything will be fine."_ He bites his tongue to remind himself of the reality that _No, if he reveals himself now John will die._

His eyes, however, show the sadness, pain, and understanding of _centuries, _which is impossible; Sherlock hasn't been alive for centuries, but he's always been _years_ ahead of the game anyway. Nothing else moves. He sits, knees up to his chest and hands idly toying with a few strands of grass, watching John walk away.

That day, on the roof of Bart's, he'd let a tear slip. He'd felt it, the small streak trailing down his face sending warmth through his face. This wasn't the single tear he'd cried for Ms. Munkford; it's not forced, and he allows it to slip down his face willingly. He doesn't blink, doesn't try to will more to come, for once he doesn't try to be dramatic. He just lets the tear fall.

Now, sitting in the cemetery and watching his best friend- _only _friend walk away from his grave, the stony lines of determination written across his face; it's almost more than he can take, but he wills the tears that are fighting tooth and nail to leak out to stay put.

He's biting his tongue so hard it breaks the pink flesh and now he tastes it, the tangy, coppery taste of blood, pouring down his throat.

He blinks, and feels two identical trails of warm, wet, _feeling _slide down his face.


End file.
